


the graceful traveller, idly dreaming

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: the lone traveller multiverse [14]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Direwolf Incest, F/M, Gen, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon Snow is Prince of Dragonstone, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Just kidding he only has 3, Northern Traditions, R Plus L Equals J, Rituals, Robb Stark has bastards all over the North, Robb Stark is King in the North, Robb Stark is a Gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 07:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13875615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: One: Margaery Tyrell lets her fantasises run away with her, so that the reality is somewhat of a surprise.Two: Margaery travels to Winterfell to attend a wedding, and finds the North too baffling for words.Three: Margaery continues to try and fathom the Starks. (This chapter reveals who Jon's wife is!)





	1. Chapter 1

On meeting Robb Stark for the first time, Margaery regretted her hasty grab for the Iron Throne. After Robert’s marriage to Cersei had been annulled by the High Septon, marriage to Robert had seemed like her only chance to be Queen. At the time, no one had taken Robb Stark’s claim to the title of King in the North seriously. He had seemed like a boy playing at war, beside the bloodthirsty, battle-tested Robert. Robert spoke of his namesake as a petulant child; rebellious but green.

But Robb had surprised them all by winning every battle he fought. He had carved out not only his own Kingdom, but cut off a sizable chunk of Robert’s, and when you counted the fact that Dorne really ruled themselves and the Westerlands were in open rebellion against the crown at that point, King Robb ended up with the larger, more stable land of the two men. Proving himself to be a skilled battle commander and shrewd negotiator. Plus he was younger, more handsome, and raised by arguably the most honourable lord in the Seven Kingdoms. 

After meeting Robb, seeing those bright blue eyes framed by lashings of red curls for herself, Margaery was rather cross with her grandmother, for persuading her to marry Robert before the war was won. If Margaery was still free, she might have had a young warrior for a husband. No doubt he was a virgin, someone she could teach to pleasure her in all the ways she preferred. Instead, she was lumbered with an obese, drunken oaf closer to her father’s age than her own. 

There was no use crying over it now; at least in King’s Landing, Margaery would be afforded the kind of lifestyle she deserved. From what she understood, the North was a plain, primitive sort of place. Drab, and not very lively. The people were too preoccupied with grain and harvest to care much for conversation, tournaments or dancing, all things Margaery adored. She would probably not enjoy living there very much at all. Eating simple food, unable to wear her fine, revealing dresses due to the famous cold. Dreary days passing with no laughter or beauty. No, the opulence of court was much more her style.

Still, she could not help but fantasize over what might have been. Alone in the dark, where there were no piercing eyes surrounded by deep crow’s feet to judge her. Running her hands through Robb's rich red curls in her mind, she taught him how to give the lord’s kiss. Clutching those curls tightly as he drowned between her thighs. It was a wonderful dream to return to, night after night.

Margaery didn’t have any opportunity to corner the man alone, until Robb’s new bride was only a few days ride out from the Capital. Robert, in a bid to be magnanimous, had offered the Sept of Baelor for their wedding. It had the advantages of being double edged sword. On the dull edge; the gift of a royal wedding, legitimised by the use of the grandest sept in the known world. And the sharp edge; a wedding before the Seven, for the King of the First Men (a title Robert had agreed to relinquish), with all the pomp and opulence Northmen famously rejected. No doubt the Northmen had been gnashing at the bit in eagerness to go home, and now they were stuck waiting for a grand wedding to be performed.

Robb had affably agreed, but Margaery saw the flash of annoyance in his blazing blue eyes. She was not at all surprised to learn that a second wedding was planned in Winterfell’s godswood when they returned home. When she came upon him in the godswood of the Red Keep, she quickly shooed Brienne away a good distance. Then, once she had caught his eye, she couldn’t help but ask why he didn’t simply have his second marriage on the same day, in that very place.

Amused, Robb raised one eyebrow at her impertinence. 

“It wouldn’t have any meaning, without a heart tree.”

Of course. Margaery considered the large yew tree at the centre of the Red Keep’s godwood to be a heart tree, but a Stark would accept no less than a carved weirwood.

“Then I hope the second ceremony is beautiful and solemn, as is fitting. Much more preferable to the extravagant nonsense you will have to endure here.”

Robb laughed at that, stepping a few paces closer to her. “Thank you, my lady.”

At this range, Margaery noticed the missive cradled in his hand. She nodded to it with a demure smile. 

“A message from your betrothed?”

Robb blinked, as though he had quite forgotten the scroll in his hand. Margaery was used to having that effect on men. She blinked demurely emphasising her large, innocent eyes. 

“Ah, no,” Robb said hastily, before his expression became more guarded. “A letter regarding my son. He is in good health and has learnt to roll onto his tummy. And he has begun the normal babbling and reaching out for things- sorry, I’m boring you.”

“Not at all!” Margaery chirped, “I can tell you’re very proud. It’s lovely that you care so deeply. I know little and less about babes, myself. But I suppose you would be familiar, being the eldest of so many brothers and sisters.”

She thought she masked her shock well. Not a virgin after all then, but a new father. If she didn’t know better of a Stark, she would suspect the child in question a bastard. She had not been told that Robb Stark had ever been married, but then Northmen kept to themselves. And Grandmother didn't tell her everything, much to Margaery’s frequent chagrin. But some expressions couldn't be faked, and it was often better that she didn't know the full picture.

Margaery knew Mrycella Waters had been sent North with the intention of marrying Robb, so he must be a young widow. How terribly sad, she suddenly thought. He had kind eyes and a gracious manner, was fearless in battle and a good negotiator. He did not deserve heartbreak. But most likely, his first wife had died in childbirth. She resolved to make no reference to the woman, lest it rob the sweet smile from his face.

“You must be excited, to be a new father?” She asked, “It’s horrible, how the war has separated so many men from their little ones.”

“My son is one of the lucky ones. His father will be returning to him,” Robb said, a shadow of regret passing across his features. “But yes, I will be glad to see him again. I was there for his birth, by sheer luck. The timing of the campaign meant I was camped in the Neck when Meera went into labour.”

Margaery blinked, puzzled. If the boy was newly born, he most certainly had not been conceived long before the war, when Robb was supposedly betrothed to Mrycella. Robb seemed to sense her confusion, offering her a commiserating look.

“Everyone keeps congratulating me on my first child.” he revealed, “It’s getting irksome, correcting them all.”

Margaery gave up in her attempts to understand. Her assumptions thus far had been fruitless, a miss of the target every time. Robb Stark was turning out to be far more complex than she had expected. Not a green boy, not at all.

“How many children do you have, your grace?” she asked faintly. 

The boy was her age, or thereabouts, and blushed at the sight of her bosom in her low-cut dress. Yet he had more than one babe already?

Ned Stark was famously honourable, but even he had fathered a bastard, she suddenly remembered. And Brandon Stark was said to be a wild one, hence his ridiculous demand for Rhaegar Targaryen to ‘come out and die’. It seemed Robb had followed in the footsteps of his forebears.

He answered her question with a far-away look in his eyes. “Just two; and my boys have the same mother.” 

A wistful smile passed over his face then, and all at once, Margaery finally understood. Robb Stark was in love with an unsuitable girl. And like Prince Duncan the Small, he would not give her up, despite the throne that had been thrust upon him. 

Or perhaps he had named himself King in a bid to no longer remain beholden to any other. For who could order a King to marry against his wishes? And yet they were to remain tragically parted, Robb and his Meera, regardless of his power. Because war was costly in money and supplies, as well as men, and Robb Stark needed the funds that control of goldmines and stores would give him, through his chosen Lannister bride.

Robb glanced down at the letter in his hands, no doubt penned by his mistress, a proud smile on his face. 

“I have been a father since I was fourteen,” he revealed, “Yet it never ceases to be a delight. I’m sure you will experience the joys soon, your grace.”

Margaery did her best to return his smile, hoping it seemed genuine. “If the gods are willing.”

“Yes indeed,” Robb agreed, glancing up at the unacceptable heart tree. “Though to my people, these lands are entirely godless, with no weirwoods to contain them. I am sure it cannot be entirely true. There would not be so many kind people here, such as you, were it not for their influence.”

“I am sure you are right, your grace,” Margaery blushed, hoping he truly meant the compliment.

“I know it,” Robb’s gaze returned to his letter. “If you’ll forgive me, I need to reply to Meera. This was her response when I told her of the wedding. I think she’s worried I might forget about our boys. As if I ever could.”

The young King shook his head fondly, and took his leave.

Margaery remained in the godswood for quite a while, and considered what it would be like to love someone enough that even a small scroll could garner in such joy. She hoped to have children of her own to cherish someday soon. But Margaery knew it was not only news of his sons that made Robb's eyes sparkle. 

She wondered if poor Rosamund knew her future husband's heart belonged to another. Margaery shuddered then, very glad that at least Lyanna Stark was long dead, though Robert loved her still. A very good thing she had not waited to marry Robb, yes. She was not at all suited to the North.


	2. Chapter 2

It is many years before Margaery ever gets the chance to see Winterfell for herself. The war against the Others has been fought and won, though she can scarcely believe she lived through the Second Long Night. The scars are in every crease of the Kingdoms, so many lives lost, her own House almost culled to extinction. Those that managed to battle on until the Dawn were taken by a plague only scant years later, their health weakened by years of meagre food and no sunlight. 

Margaery had been furious when Robert refused to name their younger son the Lord of Highgarden. Two of her brothers, Willas and Garlan, had died. Loras had joined the Kingsguard after Renly’s death. Willas’ only son perished without children, and so her beautiful girlhood home was to be given over to a cadet branch, cousins of her Father’s line. That was all well and legal, but it burned her that yet more of their Kingdom was to be given over to foreign Kings. Though Leo Tyrell was a Reachman through and through, an excellent jouster and a good man, his wife began life as a Greyjoy. Now King Theon’s line would have a foothold in the Reach.

Robert would not hear of intervening. There had been three male contenders for the seat of Highgarden at first. But after Leo had duelled one almost to the death, the other had forfeited his claim. The only girl, Willas’ daughter, was married with a household of her own, and settled. She did not wish to uproot her life and take up the mantel of her birthright. 

Margaery couldn’t understand it. Why settle for less, when all the riches and beauty of the greatest House in the Reach were on the table? But the willful girl would not be moved, and so Margaery had pleaded for Robert to give it to Harlen. But no. First the stupid man had allowed himself to be swayed into marrying their heir to the dragons. To finally tie together the Houses of Baratheon and Targaryen in peace. Demolishing the contest between their claims for the Iron Throne. And now Robert refused to grant their younger son Highgarden, after already surrendering Dragonstone, and giving away Storm’s End to his bastard. It rankled to clamp down on her fury, for the sake of her reputation. But privately, Margaery seethed at the injustice of it.

Mayhaps Robert might have considered the scheme some more, had the suggestion not come from her. Robert had long since grown immune to her charms. But it was no matter now; the decrees had been signed, and Leo Tyrell and his Greyjoy wife would take control of her home. 

Honestly, Margaery had jumped at the chance to leave King’s Landing after the whole debalacle. She had to tolerate Randyll Tarly’s smug presence at court indefinitely, now that he had been elevated to the Hand of the King. The Tarlys had stolen the words of her House; Growing Strong indeed. First, his grandson married to Shireen Baratheon, though the boy had died not too many years after. Then his daughter Talla, who had been married to a lowly Tyrell knight, had suddenly become the mother of the Lord of Highgarden. Margaery grew ever more irritated by Lord Tarly’s presence, longing to scratch his face with her nails until he bled. 

Robb Stark’s invitation, to the wedding of his son and heir, could not have come at a more auspicious time.

*

Travel along the King’s Road had become more dangerous since the Second Long Night. There are great sections missing, where the Others had waged their war to return to the Isle of Faces. But this part of the Riverlands is for King Robb to deal with. And there is evidence of work underway. The smallfolk who are digging ditches stop and stare, as their horses thunder past (there is no hope of a wheelhouse getting through, which Margaery is privately grateful for, she has been riding horses since she could walk). 

In Riverrun, they are greeted with great warmth, with rich dishes of delicious meals and lively dancing every night. There is chance to truly enjoy oneself, before the party continues onward alongside Prince Brandon Stark, who has become a King in all but name. He and his family will join them on the last leg of the journey North. 

At the Neck, Margaery is afforded her first glimpse of the girl who made Robb Stark forget his honour. They are brought into Greywater Watch by crannogmen; small, impish people, light on their feet, with overly-large eyes. Margaery knows as well as any other, why. The revelations during the war of the False Stags came thick on the heels of one another, each more incredulous than the next. Hard to believe, even if the proof had been ready at hand.

Lady Meera greets Prince Brandon as an old friend, the younger man ruffling the hair of his nephews affectionately, before drawing her into a bear hug. Rather unrefined, these Northmen. But friendly, welcoming and full of genuine affection. There is much goodness to be found in them, Margaery thinks.

Meera Reed, she does not know what to make of. The girl has pretty eyes, that is certain, but her mouth is too large, her curls a little too wild, her chin too pointed, for her to ever be considered a beauty. She dresses in the same hodge-podge of leathers and furs as the rest of her people, and would not look out of place with a spear in her hand. Margaery wondered what it was that Robb Stark saw in her. 

Was he just a green boy falling into bed with the first girl that showed him any attention? That would explain one bastard, but not two. Not so many years apart. Besides, Margaery well remembers the look on Robb Stark’s face when he thought of Meera. No, she was a first love, not some girl he tumbled for the fun of it.

The Lord of House Reed, Meera’s younger brother Jojen, is a chronically sick man, she explains. He cannot attend upon them, but means no disrespect. He shows his face at some dinners before they all continue on to Winterfell, and Margaery can see his ailment is true. The man is pale and thin, wrapped in many layers of thick furs, and requires a curious chair with wheels instead of legs to move around, athough he is able to hobble about with the aid of a stick.

Robb Stark’s bastards are a mix of their parents, from what Margaery remembers of the young warrior that filled her fantasties for years. (His name had truly been a gift; Robert assumed she meant him, when she panted for Robb whilst lying beneath him). Wulfric Snow is a strapping lad, with brown hair and the bright blue eyes Tullys are known for. Both boys have inherited their mother’s frizzy locks, though the slender Jojen, not to be confused with his uncle of the same name, has his father’s red hair. His eyes are the same warm brown-green as his mother. 

Lady Meera is a gracious host, but Margaery cannot see past her frumpy clothes, and plain, dowdy appearance. No wonder she had never married, nor gained any other bastards from the King in the North. For against the svelte, elegant Rosamund Lannister, how could she ever compare?

There are no more stops at castles after Greywater Watch, though they pass the ruins of Castle Cerwyn on the way. Winterfell rises like a giant over the hills; a huge castle, far larger than the formidable Red Keep. Margaery is in awe of the ancient, gloomy structure. No honour guard rides out to meet them, and she is reminded once again she is no longer in the South. When they reach the central gate leading from the King’s Road, they find the road flanked by two gigantic stone direwolves larger than their horses, mid-prowl, their jaws open in matching snarls full of drooling sharp teeth. 

“Gods be good,” Margaery breathed out. None of her books on Northern people and their customs mentioned _that_.

Robb Stark greeted them in his throne room, flanked by his golden haired wife, trueborn son and daughter, and his goodson. The boy is also Robert’s grandson, through his bastard son Gendry. Cerena Baratheon is just starting to swell with child, not noticable until her proud husband Davos points it out. Robert lost all decorum then, dragging his laughing grandson in for a huge hug, kissing the boy on both cheeks, his own ruddy with happiness. Margaery cannot help but smile at his enthusiasm, though Davos is only her grandson by law. 

Margaery does not fail to notice how Robb Stark greeted Meera warmly, kissing her hand. An act that is reserved only for greeting Queens, in Westeros. Rosamund Stark is a rigid stony tower as she watches, her face carefully blank. Robb Stark greeted his bastard sons as though they were trueborn, wrapping them both into his arms at once. 

“My boys,” he gushed, dropping a kiss to each of their heads, though Wulf was a man grown and of a height with him.

Minisa Stark appeared in the throne room then, to greet her nephews, and the woman that might have been her sister by law, had things turned out differently. Princess Minisa was a widow, just come out of her long period of mourning. 

Margaery was surprised to see her at Winterfell already; she had expected the woman to be ruling as Protector of Last Hearth, until her young son came of age. Of course she would be in attendance of her nephew’s wedding, but as she lived close by, there was no need for her to arrive as early as the guests that travelled furthest. It is weeks before the wedding will take place. It is the custom, even in the North, for the closest Houses to arrive last, so that the combined guests do not eat the host House’s larders empty in anticipation of the grand event.

The celebration is to be an extra extravegant one, since they plan to announce Cerena’s pregnancy to the North the following day. No doubt the Northmen will enjoy the excuse to drink themselves into early graves. Margaery does not think it will be the long before the next wedding in the North; not judging by the heated looks that pass between Minisa Umber and Wulf Snow.

The weeks leading up the wedding are full of laughter and lightness, the kind Margaery might not have experienced since Highgarden. Her boys enjoy sparring with the Starks, true and baseborn, and are thrilled to spend time with Davos. He is their nephew in blood, but they act more like cousins, due to their ages.

There were many feasts, and dances, where Margaery outshined most in her elegant dresses. She was shocked when Meera Reed appeared at the grandest feast, to celebrate the arrival of all the guests. She had seen Meera dance daintily, in her plain blue, olive green or grey dresses. But at this feast, she wore an elaborate mint green dress of lace, arranged to look like a delicate fisherman’s net. It was covered in tiny embroidered lilies and lily-pads. Her hair was elegantly coifed, her smile radiant as she danced set after set in Robb Stark’s arms. Margaery wondered idly if Robb had ever fallen out of love with Meera, as she danced her own sets with a parade of different Northmen.

Three days before the wedding, Margaery was introduced to the most peculiar Northern custom yet. Robb Stark sat on his throne and allowed any man, great or small, to petition him for gifts. This odd tradition only happened before a King of Winter’s son was married, and since Robb only had the one trueborn, men from far and wide had come to ask favours of him. He was expected to grant the overwhelming majority of them. The only thing they are barred from asking for is money, or the hand of any of his other children. The ritual lasts from the hours of dawn until dusk, each three days before the wedding; the evening of the third being the night the wedding takes place. 

Smallfolk petitioner make up most of the gifts on the first day, which does not really interest Margaery. The truly shocking things take place on the third day, when the largest gifts are traditionally asked for. Not long before the sun goes down, after hours of listening attentively, poor King Robb was exhausted. Naturally, this was when Minisa Umber stepped forward.

Robb sat up, suddenly paying actual attention, rather than simply agreeing to everything at this point, just to get it over with.

Princess Minisa curtseyed to her brother and King. 

“Get on with it, Mini,” Robb pleaded, resulting in a smattering of titters from the intrigued lords crammed into the hall.

“My King, on this day, the day of your only trueborn son’s wedding, I would ask that you legitimise the baseborn man that I love. So that we may be married, and live out the rest of our days in love and happiness.”

Robb’s eyebrows flew up in shock. 

“And where is this man?” he asked, craning his neck to look.

It was no shock to Margaery at all, when Wulfric Snow stepped forward. The same could not be said for King Robb.

“I’m here, Father.” The young man said, nervous and flushed.

There was a collective intake of breath in the throne room as Robb gaped in disbelief. Asking a King to legitimise his own bastard was by far the biggest, most risky gift anyone had asked for. Most people just wanted land or a boat or some goats. 

“This is an outrage!” Rosamund eventually howled, charging forward. “I have stood silently by all these years, safe in the knowledge of what you promised me. That my son would be the Lord of Winterfell and King in the North. Mine! Not your legitimised bastard!”

Wulf shifted uneasily, clearly mortified by all the attention, while Princess Minisa remained utterly unmoved by the chaos erupting around her. The court began to talk in a loud rabble.

“Apologies, my queen, for the confusion,” Minisa called over the crowd, “You mistake me, you mistake my intention!” 

The Northern Princess yelled to be heard over the ever-growing din.

“Enough!” Robb demanded, taking a page from his namesake’s book to bellow in fury. “The next person to speak, who is not a petitioner, will spend the duration of the wedding in the stocks.”

There was silence after that.

“Princess Minisa of Houses Stark and Umber, explain yourself.” Robb ordered imperiously, his eyes flashing dangerously. Yes, Robb Stark had the wolf-blood in him.

“I do not ask you to legitimise him as a Stark, your grace.” She said carefully, sending Rosamund a challenging look, “But as a Reed. So that he might inherit the lands of his mother.”

Rosamund swallowed audibly, humilited by her rash reaction. Margaery winced in sympathy. She has had her doubts about Gendry, and his place in Robert’s affections. She understands entirely the urge to protect ones sons from other claimants to their birthright.

“Oh,” said Robb, blinking owlishly for a moment, “Well, that’s- well. Really Mini? You’re his aunt!”

“Cerena and Davos are cousins,” Minisa reminded him flatly, “It’s no different.”

“Ugh,” groaned Robb, “Edric Stark is mocking me from the crypts.”

“What?” said Minisa, but Brandon Stark began to laugh, deep and unhindered, clearly in on the private jape.

“This is just like that story you told us! Of Edric and Serena-” Brandon wheezed, until Robb cut across him with a curt;

“Aye, all right Bran! That’s enough out of you, unless you want to spend your night in the stocks.”

But Brandon was too busy laughing to care about his brother’s idle threats.

“Gods be good, I don’t want to be in the room when Theon Greyjoy hears about this, are we clear?” Robb glared at Minisa.

“Your grace?” She said quitely, clearly as lost by the turn in the conversation as Margaery was. Who in the Seven Hells was Edric Stark?

“Yes, yes all right, marry my son, Wulfric Reed.” Robb sighed, at which point Minisa squeaked girlishly, and scurried up to the throne, throwing her arms about her still seated brother, who patted her back as she smothered him.

The petitions followed in a brazen fashion after that.

Meera Reed was next, in a plain blue dress, somehow looking regal in the simple design. Perhaps it was the way she carried herself, straight-backed and proud.

“Meera!” Robb breathed, before remembering himself. “Lady Meera of House Reed and Clan Marsh, what would you ask of me?”

“My King, on this day, the day of your only trueborn son’s wedding, I would ask that you legitimise our younger son, Jojen. As a Reed.” She clarified, raising an eyebrow in Rosamund’s direction, while other woman glared at her.

“So that he might inherit the lands of my forebears, in the case that Wulf and Minisa have no heirs.” Meera continued, with a soft smile at the mention of her son and his new betrothed.

“Done,” said Robb quickly, flashing his (former?) mistress a grin. Probably believing that the trickiest requests were done.

“Who’s next?” He called out, “It’s almost sundown!”

“I am, your grace.” said Brandon Stark, still struggling to regain his breath after his laughing fit.

Robb quirked an eyebrow at his younger brother. “Really? And what can I offer the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands on this day?”

“We must observe ritual, Robb,” Brandon chided playfully, but in a firm tone. 

With a roll of his eyes, Robb rephrased his question: “Prince Brandon of Houses Stark and Tully, what would you ask of me?”

“My King, on this day, the day of your only trueborn son’s wedding, I would ask that you allow the Riverlands to secede from the Kingdom of the North. Without a drop of blood spilt. So that we may rule ourselves, according to our own laws and customs.”

Margaery felt her heart began to thump erratically, digging her fingers into her palms. Wars had been started with less words. She wondered hysterically if she was about to witness a kinslaying, as Robb’s face clouded over with thunder.

Brandon Stark’s jaw gave twitch of nervous anticipation when King Robb only stared at him.

“Am I hearing right?” Robb said carefully, “Are you asking me, little brother, on the day of my son’s wedding, to let you take a chunk of my Kingdom? To make you a King?”

Brandon swallowed nervously, but said nothing more. The court waited in dead silence, though Margaery saw men and guards alike place their hands on the pommels of their swords. Achingly slowly, with the creaking of a man seated for many hours, Robb Stark rose to his full height, descending painstakingly from the dias. His thick furs settled around him as he moved, dragging on the stone floor as he stepped close to his brother. The sharp spires of his crown glintered menacingly as he moved.

“The land I granted you, to rule over in my name? The fertile Riverlands; you want me to relinquish all claim to it?” Robb demanded through gritted teeth.

“Aye, your grace.” Brandon confirmed quietly, “That is what I am asking for.”

“Gods be good, Bran,” whispered Robb, before a smile split his serious countenance, “What took you so long?”

He held out his right hand in clear invitation to seal the agreement in the ancient fashion, the old way. Brandon let out his held breath in a whoosh of air, sagging in relief as Robb laughed.

“Arse,” said Brandon, clasping his brother’s arm strongly, “If I wake up with a head of grey hair…”

Robb immediately ruffled Brandon’s hair in delight, garnering a slapped wrist in response. Then the two Kings began to tussle as though they were still boys in the yard.

For years to come, people would talk of the largest gift ever asked from a King of Winter, a kingdom gladly relinquished. There would even be a song about the Good Wolf King, and his brothers the King of the Rivers, the King of the Rock, and the King of the Isles. In time, people would come to forget the King of the Isles wasn’t his brother by blood, and there was some confusion when the maesters tried to attribute the song to the correct Age. But all that was to come.

On the day it happened, Margaery watched the proceedings in disbelief, once again very glad she had not married into the North. An exceedingly bizarre place, that she would never come to understand, not even if she spent the rest of her lifetime there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meera's ballgown: https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/569846159094332039/?source_app=android


	3. Chapter 3

Margaery could not help staring in awe at the intricate, beautiful ice sculptures that filled the Winterfell godswood. They glimmered in the moonlight on the night of young Ned Stark’s wedding to Alys Umber, Minisa Umber’s sister by law. They had been fashioned from snow and magic, weilded by Tyr Stark, the most famous yet enigmatic man in the Seven Kingdoms. 

The entire realm knew the story of how he had emerged from years of subjugation as the Night King, when Jyana Reed had drawn the dragonglass shard out from his heart. He had almost killed her for her trouble. But he had been too weakened by the shock to his system to succeed in strangling her to death. 

It had been Jon Targaryen, then Jon Snow, who had first befriended the exhausted ancestor of House Stark. Using his halting, rudimentary grasp of the Old Tongue to explain that they were kin. Defeated and confused, the poor man had passed out after accepting that his life was not in danger. Tyr, son of Tybek, had been horrified to learn upon waking just how many years had gone by. That his family, clansmen, everyone he had ever known and loved, had perished thousands of years ago. In desperate misery, he had tried to take his own life, but had been stopped before the sword could penetrate his heart.

Jon had begged him to live, to meet the other Starks, to see the castle that his beloved grandson Bran had built. Wary, but without many other options, Tyr Stark had followed his hundreds of greats-grandson North. He had made the Stark’s maester Luwin something of a celebrity, as it was fashionable to have his account of Tyr’s biographical story on display in your home, where guests could see it. Tyr’s story of crossing the Arm of Dorne as a boy with his father (proving its existance definitively for the first time), was listened to eagerly, by men who travelled the length of Westeros for the chance to hear it first hand. Oberyn Martell taught himself the Old Tongue so that he could ask questions directly, and not rely on Tormund Giantsbane’s translations.

Tyr’s abilities with snow and ice were the stuff of song and fantastical legend. He had spent too long with a shard of dragonglass in his body to lose all his abilities after it was removed. Though he had begun to age naturally after it was taken out, maesters of the Citadel theorised that a thin fragment may had broken off and remained within him. Whatever the cause, Tyr could bend and form snow to his will, though he no longer had the ability to make it from the water vapours of fog and mist. 

Needing to feel useful, the quiet, melancholy Tyr used manual labour to distract himself from his troubles. He spent his early days at Winterfell forging weapons and armour from the unique material all day long. His swords were composed of ice crystals, but not regular ice; the sharp, deadly kind the Others had been infamous for wielding. They did not shatter a steel sword on impact, as they once had when the Others used them, but they were still razor-thin, lightweight and did not lose their edge with time. Unfortunately, only those with Stark blood could touch them for more than a second, and not get frostbite. A man stabbed with an ‘Icesteel’ blade would freeze to death before the wound killed him, if the sword was not removed immediately. 

Tyr could not conjure ice out of thin air, and in the summer it was in short supply. Thankfully, Robb Stark had a lot of building supplies lying about, which Tyr borrowed, to drag great hunks of icy rubble from the broken Wall, down to where they were needed. He employed the help of giants. He had forged a deep friendship with the few left, since he spoke their language and they were almost as old as he was.

With a lot of trauma to take out by hammering them into shape with his bare hands, Tyr forged innumerable swords, daggers, arrowheads and other similar weaponry. Robb Stark had to build another armoury in Winterfell just to house it all. There were so many swords that all men with Stark blood had at least one, including the Karstarks and Targaryens, and most of the women too. Princess Arya was never seen without her blade.

Sansa Stark’s crown was made from Icesteel, as was Robb Stark’s glittering, intricate throne. Most called the material by its unofficial name, ‘Stark steel’. It became the custom for a man of Stark blood, who was also the Lord of a seat, to wield a Greatsword of Icesteel. A tradition that began with Robb Stark. He now wielded Icefang, a giantic Icesteel blade as tall as he was. The Valyrian Steel Ice that had been his ancestral sword, hung proud and loyal in his father’s hand, from Ned’s statue in the crypts.

Icesteel was also an excellent way to prove the blood of a child if legitimacy was ever called into question. Or if a bastard child claimed to have a Stark parent, touching a single finger to an Icesteel blade and being able to withstand its freezing properties would be undeniable proof.

Which is how Jeor Mormont, Dacey Mormont’s only child, revealed he was Robb’s hidden bastard. Picking up his father’s sword to prove it. The bold statement was only necessary, because he wished to marry his cousin Celia Stark. The Riverlords would not accept it, as a man with no known father. A contingent of them had travelled to Winterfell years ago, to complain to their King. Their leige lord would not comply with their demands to break off the betrothal. Brandon Stark had been happy to let his daughter marry for love, when the man in question was a brave warrior.

Before Robb Stark could speak, (though evidently he had planned to), Jeor grasped his father’s throne with one hand, and unsheathed Icefang with the other, proclaiming “Here sits my father, my lords.”

The story was a favourite one for men deep in their cups to recount. Robb Stark would sigh heavily, whenever he caught sight of anyone grab hold of a table or bench or pillar with one hand, and brandish a sword with the other.

The Starks were growing to have an increasingly complex family tree, Margaery noted with envy. Even young Ned Stark’s bride had Stark blood; her mother was Alys Karstark, now the Lady Umber. She was the one who was to hold the seat of Last Hearth as Protector to her dead husband’s grandson by Ned Umber, who had been Minisa Umber’s first husband. 

Unlike Margaery’s family, there were an abunance of Starks left in the world, and they were breeding at an exponential rate. Very few Northmen overall had died in the Second Long Night, in comparison to rest of the Seven Kingdoms. They were more prepared for the terrible conditions, more innured to it.

Robb Stark’s obsession with building, and restoring ruins, had resulted in more places to store food, and hide out during the worst storms. Even the Wintertown had been fortified with a Wall, providing shelter from the icy winds. He had extended his influence all the way to Skagos, that region of savages in the Bay of Seals. Robert and Margaery listened to the young wolf King proudly speak of building a keep, on the formerly abandoned island of Skane, in faint disbelief. 

“It’s the first structure of this size that I designed entirely by myself,” the King in the North gushed, like a boy talking about his first sword.

“Heavily influenced by my ancestors, of course.” he continued, “Edric Stark was an unsung hero. I’m thinking of having a song commissioned about him. Anyway, Rickon’s keep was finished years ago, but he keeps tinkering with it, to really make it his own I suppose.” 

Margaery nodded in agreement. 

“That’s what I wanted to call it; Rickon’s Keep, but he wouldn’t have it. Kept moaning that his descendants would end up being known as the Rickstarks, which admittedly, sounds rather ridiculous.”

“What did he settle on instead, Robb?” Margaery asked, clamping down on the urge to demand more information, about how on planetos Robb Stark had pursuaded the unwashed barbarians on Skagos, to allow him to meddle with their closest island.

Robb had insisted they drop the formalities of “your grace”, as with all the royalty present at Winterfell, it would get confusing very quickly.

“The Frost Keep.” Robb answered, “I admit it has a nice ring to it. And they get some bitterly cold nights out there, so close to the Shivering Sea!”

Rickon Stark was a wild young man, in keeping with his reported friendship with the wild Skagg clans, who had recently declared him their King. He and his wife were explorers, who had ridden across Westeros and spent a long time in the Stepstones. To their great surprise, they had encountered Kevan Lannister there. He had been in exile, ever since it was clear the Lannisters had lost the war. The two had captured him and ransomed him to Tyrion Lannister, for a nice bag of gold. 

Though still young, Rickon had a full beard as shaggy as his aptly named direwolf, which followed him everywhere. Whilst Margaery had been invited to pet Summer and Grey Wind, the direwolves of the elder Stark men, she had been expressly warned not to approach Rickon’s black beast. There was no danger of that however, as the huge, snarling beast gave off an air of ill-contained savagery, and was very ill-tempered. The rude wolf frequently jumped atop tables, ate ravens and frightened the stabled horses. Robb Stark wasn’t afraid of grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and dragging him about, commanding him out of a room. Margaery saw no one else, save for Rickon and his wife Lyanna, touch the monstrous creature.

Robb Stark wasn’t intimidated by anything, especially not direwolves. A whole litter off them followed him everywhere. They were Grey Wind’s pups, who terrorised the wildlife in the wolfswood, and lolled about the throne room playfully whenever Robb held court. It was amusing to see various guests pick their way around them as they attempted to move through the room.

“Don’t they have a mother?” Margaery asked of the many wolves, soon after she had arrived. 

They were pups no longer, each one the size of a small pony, but they were all dwarfed by their father, the formidable grey wolf. He was so large that the door to the throne room had to be taken out, and stonework demolished, so that he could fit through the wider replacement.

“They’re Nymeria’s pups mostly. My sister’s wolf. Some of them are half-breeds, with ordinary wolves. What you see is only half of the amount there were, back when Arya lived here. Now she’s at Storm’s End, she thankfully took the rest with her.” Robb explained with a laugh.

The patient Grey Wind didn’t seem to mind his brother Shaggy’s antics. The two wolves, along with Bran’s placid Summer, were too big to fit in the throne room together, so Robb banished them all to the godswood, where they tumbled over one another and generally made a nuisance of themselves whilst the wedding preparations were underway.

After the wedding, Winterfell was inundated by yet more furry companions, when King Theon and Queen Sansa arrived unexpectedly. They had declined the invitation to Ned’s wedding. Not wanting to leave their son and daughter by law, in anticipation of the birth of their first grandchild. Bethany Greyjoy was delivered of a girl, in time for the ruling royals of the Iron Islands to take their swiftest ship to Sea Dragon Point. They arrived at Winterfell in time to catch the end of the festivities.

Their supply of fish, shellfish and barrels of ale meant the celebrations could continue far longer than expected. King Theon and Queen Sansa were also accompanied by their own direwolves; both female. Theon Greyjoy’s wolf was the largest of all, towering over even Jon Targaryen’s Ghost. 

“I didn’t realise they had more growing left to do,” Margaery muttered in awe, rather intimidated by the thought. If they all grew to be as large as Theon’s Storm, and as obedient as Grey Wind, Robb Stark would have himself an army of wolves.

“Storm is Grey Wind, Lady and all the Stark sibling’s wolves mother,” Theon explained, going into detail about how he, Robb and Jon had found them newly born, their mother severely wounded.

“These ones-” he said, referring to the troop of smaller wolves they had brought from the Islands, thankfully only five in total, “-are Lady’s pups, conceived when Jon came to visit two years ago. Ghost was incorrigible. All over his sister!”

King Theon had a pleasant laugh. Were he not an Ironborn, Margaery might have thought him handsome. Sansa Stark joined their conversation wearing an armoured corset, forged from Icesteel. 

“How breathtakingly lovely!” Margaery complimented her, pulling on her riding gloves so that she could run her hand over the curiously smooth material.

They were about to go for an afternoon ride and camp out beneath the stars in the wolfswood, and were shortly joined by Prince Jon Targaryen and his wife, the beautiful Allyria. Margaery had thus far avoided the Targaryens, whom she was still sore with over the loss of Dragonstone. The island should have been the seat of the heir to the Iron Throne. But Jon Targaryen had earned it back, as a reward for saving her husband’s life in battle. Robert had offered to legitismise him for this deed, but Jon had pleaded with the King to wait until after the war to dole out any rewards. Laughing that the honourable Ned Stark’s son would ask such a thing, Robert agreed.

Of course, he had been furious to discover Jon was in fact a trueborn Targaryen and not the son of his dearest friend, when the young man had come to King’s Landing to accept his reward. Jon had brought proof, which had been squirreled away by Howland Reed after finding him as a baby with Ned Stark, newly born at the Tower of Joy. Rhaegar Targaryen’s harp, along with letters exchanged between Rhaegar and Lyanna, mentioning the wedding. And a document penned in Ned Stark’s hand, outlining all that had transpired that day, where he professed his undying loyalty to Robert despite his promise to Lyanna on her deathbed, to protect her son, Aemon. 

Knowing Robert’s reaction to Aegon and Rhaenys’ death, Ned claimed the boy as his own to prevent Robert from murdering him. He lied to all, including his wife, as he suspected Robert would kill them both if he ever found out, and at least Catelyn and his children would be spared if they had known nothing of the truth. Catelyn Stark had been present at court as her husband’s words were read aloud, and had publically wept to learn why her husband had decieved her.

If anyone had looked closely at the missive, they would have noted that the ink in the corner where the date was penned was not exactly the same as the rest of the document. But there was too much uproar over its other contents, once it had been agreed that Ned Stark had definitely penned it for anyone to bother.

Robert had been shocked and upset by Ned’s fear of him, and had sat in silence from then on, as Jon petitioned to have his ancestral lands back. Aegon the Conqueror had taken Dragonstone when it was a bare, useless rock, before he ever became a King of Westeros. None had conquered it directly since. With only young Shireen as a contender, Jon stated his claim was stronger. As he was forefitting his claim to the Iron Throne, Jon demanded to retain the title of Prince, which was denied to him all his life, growing up as a bastard. Margaery was not surprised to observe Prince Jon purposefully interact with Catelyn Stark. So that the woman who had always spurned him, was forced to call him by his new title.

Now, Margaery resolved to let go of her own bitterness, lest it poison her as it had Lady Catelyn. She wanted to be more like the loving Starks, who got along famously well, to the extent that Robb gave up a piece of his Kingdom to his brother, just because he asked for it. She began by cheerfully greeting the Targaryens, and complimenting Princess Allyria on her gorgeous purple riding cloak, which matched her stunning eyes.

Prince Jon’s second wife had the famous Targaryen eyes. Passed down from ancestors of their blood, through her Dayne roots. Both of her children had inherited them. But Aemon Targaryen had startlingly red eyes, like his own mother. Jon’s mysterious first wife, the Red Witch from Asshai. The boy had been named in honour of his grandmother's wishes, the name Lyanna Stark had chosen for her son. There were whispers that Aemon was a shadowbinder like his mother, who had taught him all her dark arts before she died. But those were surely just vicious rumours. Though the boy could be sullen like his father, Margaery had seen him japing with his young siblings, Lyanna and Benjen.

As they prepared themselves for the ride out, Margaery pondered the uncommon way the Starks accepted all offshoots of their house; dragons, bastards, wild men and former enemies with ice powers alike. It was a template, she decided, for a better way of life. When they returned to King’s Landing, she would invite Leo Tyrell and his Greyjoy Princess to court. They were, after all, some of the few family members she had left. There was no reason they couldn’t be friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now would be a good time to check out the [Family Tree](http://www.familyecho.com/?p=START&c=gvzcwqegrz&f=621461449219773223) again. Lots of spoilers have now been revealed so you can see where they all fit in, how Margaery is related to Leo, the whole tangled Umber situation and confirm what you already know about Jon's first wife ;)


End file.
